Of Secrets and Sweet Rolls
by sheikbloop
Summary: Dragons, nightmares, sweet roll-loving housecarls...Hannah had seen it all. Or, more accurately, hoped she'd seen it all. But then again, Skyrim was full of surprises. Rated T for some language, violence, and lollygagging!
1. Chapter 1

Skyrim had never been a particularly kind place to Wood Elves.

Hannah had seen worse; yes, that was true. But she'd also seen much better. Skyrim? It certanly wasn't one of her more enjoyable experiences thus far. She wasn't sure how three near-death incidents could ever be considered "enjoyable", and not to mention that they had all occurred on her first day in the blasted region, just as soon as she crossed the border. She'd almost been executed, incinerated by a dragon, and chased by packs of both wolves and bandits before reaching Riverwood.

And now? She was stuck in a cave that was almost crawling with Draugr and Silverhand, and she had just drained her last health potion.

Oh, Skyrim. It never failed to excite her. Or at least put her life in somewhat-certain doom.

Hannah took a deep breath. _In…out_, she told herself. Being an avid user of (and mildly obsessed with) healing potions, the discovery of rummaging through various phials and finding none was devastating. Sure, she knew healing spells, and sure, she was good at them, but nothing could ever replace the feeling of the sweet liquid rushing down her throat and filling her with extra spirit and endurance. All a healing spell could ever be was a pretty light. _Big whoop_.

Lydia shuffled her feet impatiently. "Well?" she asked. "Are we going to get out of this cave or what?"

"I'd hope so."

"You know, you don't have to use healing potions _all_ the time. It's perfectly fine to use a healing spell every once in a while."

"I guess," she answered gruffly. "Fine. Let's get this place cleared and then get out." She hoisted herself up from her seat on the cold, stone floor. She wasn't sure how far away the exit was now, but she hoped that it would be a short amount of time before they could return to the surface world. Seeing the Silverhand always left her in a bad mood, and the only cure for it would be to kill each and every one of them that she could find here.

_Oh, stop trying to act so tough, because you know that you aren't. _Shaking her head at her own idiocy, Hannah drew her bow, smiling in amusement as Lydia did the same. "Copycat," she teased. The housecarl playfully stuck out her tongue.

"Trendsetter."

The elf grinned and gave her a good poke with her bow. "Let's go."

* * *

_Screams. They were echoing from every corner the plaza, some of terror, some of pain. The smoke from the fire stung her eyes, and she closed them tightly, wincing. _

_A Stormcloak – Ralof, wasn't it? – tugged at the sleeve of her ragged tunic, yelling for her to get up and run; but she was frozen in place. Her eyes wandered to the scaly neck of the dragon, then to its head, and finally to its eyes. Its glowing, amber eyes. They almost seemed to communicate with her, which she knew was next to impossible. Still, she looked deeper into them, trying to decipher the message he was relaying._

_Then the dragon opened its mouth and a torrent of flames spewed forth from its throat_

Hannah awoke immediately to discover the sheen of sweat settled on her forehead. Nightmares again, and, as usual, they were about the dragon attack on Helgen. She sighed heavily and hoisted herself out of the bed.

Her feet made quiet shuffling noises as she walked across the hall and rapped on her housecarl's door. A sleepy Lydia answered, her mouth spewing out nearly incoherent words. "Mmn, what do you want?"

"I'm going to take a walk."

"Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. I won't let anyone into the house, do you have your shoes, yadda yadda, but let me sleep." Before her thane could speak again, she slammed the door.

Hannah marched to her bedroom, dug through the chest to gather clothes, and when she was done, left Breezehome. Nightmares were nothing new to her, and neither were the walks that she found necessary afterwards. The only downside was that she ruined many comfortable outfits. Oh well. She supposed that the extras were there for a reason.

The night was cold – predictably – and her breath came in small clouds from her chapped lips. She took in a few gulps of fresh air before continuing on. If she didn't hurry, the details of her nightmare were going to come back to her in a flood of unpleasant memories; the shining scales, the sinister eyes, the mouth, oh Divines the mouth as it breathed the flames and scorched her skin and hair and she could see her husband on the floor and

_Shut up_. She gave herself a punishing kick and walked away, her mouth set in a scowl. _Shut up and don't think anymore. _She passed the gate of Whiterun and took to the dirt road. If she thought it was cool weather behind the looming stone walls, then the open air out here was frigid. Goose bumps began to dot her arms and neck. _Damn this weather_, she thought bitterly, _Damn _me_, because I should have brought a coat._

The midnight walks were not an unusual occurrence for her, and the same applied to the huntress that often stalked the plains at this particular hour. Thus she wasn't daunted when Hannah veered off the road, hung both sets of clothes on a nearby tree, and screamed.

It wasn't a scream, really; it was more of a…howl. In fact, that's exactly what it was. Hannah's slender, agile body was unrecognizable now, covered in dark fur and rippling muscles. Not even her face was spared, because she certainly didn't have long fangs and a snout in her human form. Turning was the only way she could deal with the nightmares, and luckily, beauty wasn't one of her top priorities at the moment.

The huntress could tell you the details in a drunken sleep – she'd mistake her nightgown for a sheep and eat it, run off into the wild, slaughter exactly four deer, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The most entertaining part was when the werewolf suddenly stopped, gave another howl, and transformed back into Regular Old Hannah – who would swear loudly and begin the search for her extra set of clothes, of course. Ah, yes, these nights were usually the highlight of late hunting trips.

Yet something was terribly wrong. Hannah herself had said that using her Beast Form was always unpleasant for her, and that she avoided it when she could. The elf wasn't one to lie, that was painfully evident ("Oh, Aela, you of all people should know that I'm not bothered by your terribly strong doggy smell."), so why was she doing so now?

Something wasn't right here, and Aela was going to find out exactly what it was…but first, she was going to watch her acquaintance trudge through the small creek and say a few words-of-choice. That was always the funniest part.


	2. Chapter 2

Lydia's favorite part of morning was waking up to the delectable aroma of sweet rolls. She'd been blessed with a thane whose only talent in cooking happened to be her favorite food, oh yes. She inhaled the perfume, gave a happy sigh, and rolled out of her cot.

"You're up," Hannah said as her friend stormed down the steps. "I thought you'd never drag yourself out of bed."

"I'm sure it's not that late."

She paused for a moment, glancing at the hour-candle in the windowsill. "Half past seven."

"It could be worse. Where's breakfast?" She sat down at the small table by the hearth, which lit up with a cozy blaze. Hannah insisted on lighting the hearth whenever she was home; she said that it made Breezehome look inviting to visitors. That was a total lie, of course, as the weapon stand a few feet away was as "inviting" as a pit of skeevers.

She pointed to the platter of lukewarm rolls, and before Lydia shoveled them into her mouth, she said, "We're going to Riften today."

"To give what's-her-name those potion ingredients?" She snorted. "You say that every week."

Hannah shrugged. "And every week we can't find her. Your clothes are drying outside, and make sure to get your armor; there's been a dragon sighting somewhere near there, and you can be sure that I'm not missing that."

Lydia was still putting on her pants when Hannah performed a spell – fast travel, the housecarl suspected.

"Are you kidding me?" She hastily pulled her trousers up and shot a venomous glare at her thane. "Couldn't you have waited until I was fully dressed?"

"You took too long," she said simply, "And there's no time to waste. I think that Ingun should be around at this time. And yes, before you say it, this happens every time we come here." She pulled her beyond Riften's gates and immediately wrinkled her nose in disgust. She really did hate Riften, because she always felt like she had to cover her pockets. Shortly after, Lydia stopped in her tracks, her feet unwilling to move themselves. "What is it?" Hannah demanded.

"That _man_," she replied, "Who in the world is Mr. Hunkalicious McYummypants over there?"

The elf looked around, scowled, and began inspecting her housecarl's eyes. "Do you happen to be on skooma? He's just a guy named Brynjolf, but you-"

"Even his name is dreamy! Wait here, I'm going to go talk to him."

Hannah latched on to her arm, yanking her back. "There's a _reason_ that I don't take you to Riften in the daytime, and he is that reason. Why don't you, I don't know, go groom the horse or something?"

"We have a horse?"

"No, but let's pretend we do and get the hell out of here."

"Oh, come on, Hannah, you're no fun." She aimed a punch at her arm; though it was intentioned to be friendly, it still left a magnificently colored bruise.

"By the Divines, _fine_." She gingerly stroked the sore spot on her shoulder. "But if he asks you to do something and you get caught, I'm not giving you any septims to-"

Lydia was off and running before the sentence was completed, and the last words trailed off into a mumble. Hannah sighed deeply. _Maybe I should have left her at Breezehome_.

Moments later, as she listened to Brynjolf shout gibberish about some type of potion and spied Lydia attempting to pick a lock, she thought, _You know, maybe I should have left her with Balgruuf._

She winced at Lydia's amateurish attempts to stuff Madesi's ring in a merchant's pocket – her fingers fumbled around the cloth, poking this way and that, and she swore through her teeth. With shock registering on his face, the dark elf leapt from his seat and cried, "What the…help! Pickpocket!"

The guards were alert before her feet could carry her far, and within seconds she was brought to the ground. "Petty thief," one mumbled, "Did you really think that you would get away with this?"

Lydia grimaced visibly, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. "Well, to be completely honest…yeah, I really did."

"You must have the wits of a potato – that was the clumsiest attempt at thievery I have ever seen, and please note that I have lived in Riften all of my life!" She wasn't was sure whether the man was sneering or snickering behind his helmet, but the Nord decided that perhaps now wasn't the most appropriate time to ask. "Alright, you're coming with me. Unless you can pay off your bounty, of course."

Hannah unleashed another heaving sigh and strode to her side. "Excuse me," she snapped, "That's my housecarl you just tackled, and I'd really appreciate it if you would get off of her. How much is that bounty?"

The guard scrambled to his feet and attempted to stand tall. "Oh, uh, Dragonborn, or, um, Companion, is this _your_ housecarl?"

"Damn right I am," Lydia growled, picking herself up from the ground and shaking the dirt from her hair.

Hannah rolled her eyes. "Alright, just give me the fee and let me deal with her." She shoved a fistful of septims into his hand and waved him off. When he was out of sight, her scowl dropped from her face and was replaced with a grin. "That was stupid of you."

Lydia's eyes refused to meet her friend's. "I would've been fine if the damn merchant didn't have so many layers on."

"He just had a vest."

"Oh, shut up." She wiped the gravel from her cheek and scowled. "Let's just go find that Black-Briar chick and get out of here, alright?"

Hannah turned her head to give a spiteful look to the cause of the mishap. "Actually, how about you go ahead and do that? I...think I might stick around for a while."

"Please don't rearrange his face. I like looking at it."

"I won't make any promises. Here, take the nirnroot." She dug through her pack and threw the potion ingredients at her. All twenty of them, to be exact.

"I am sworn to carry your - Ack!"

The elf carried herself into the small plaza, stopping in front of Brynjolf's stand. "I have a bone to pick with you, pretty boy," she said, throwing him a glare that she hoped was intimidating enough.

It didn't seem to work. "Listen, lass, I don't want to hear it. That friend of yours could have gotten me arrested."

"Does it look like I really care about _you_? Lydia could have been thrown in jail, and she's my best follower, alright?"

"And what do you expect me to do about it?"

She opened her mouth to retort, but no witty words would come out. What appeared to be the world's most smug smile materialized on his mouth. Finally, she said,

"You are so _thick_." Her condescending tone had turned into a low, predatory growl. Literally.

The Nord replied with a mild chuckle. "Easy, Hannah. Go take a Midol."

"A Mi – what in the name of Oblivion is a _Midol_?"

"Never mind." He raised his eyebrows, and his smirk – _that stupid freaking smirk – _grew larger. "Shouldn't you be going now, lass?"

"I guess you're right. I don't want to get a bounty for murdering you. And _stop calling me lass_."

His arrogant expression was wiped from his face, only to be replaced by a look of puzzlement. "You're the first woman I have ever known who can resist that nickname, I'll give you that."

She snorted and said, "That word makes me feel like I'm a kid, that's why. I can't say the same for my housecarl. By the way, you'd better stay away from her, or I'll-"

"—Slit your throat, use my shouts...you've told me all of this before," he said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "I think you have places to go, don't you? Goodbye." Before Hannah could seize yet another chance to argue, he turned away and began his regular routine of shouting nonsense at passerby.

She really did not like this Brynjolf. She did not like that she had to see him every other day. And she especially did not like the fact that Lydia was most likely going to ramble about his "sexy accent" the whole way back to Breezehome.

Which was exactly what she did.

Hannah figured that she was just going to sacrifice herself to the dragons soon.

**I procrastinated on this so much, and as a result it is rushed and not a lot happens in it. Sorry! My only excuse is that Brynjolf may or may not become an important character later on. And, uh, yeah. I apologize for this filler chapter here. **

**(also, just because I can, I blame my brother if an hour-candle isn't a real thing. He suggested it and I was too lazy to check, so he is taking the blame against his will at the moment =D)**


	3. Chapter 3

The Companions were always occupied in some sense or another, but Jorrvaskr had rarely been bustling with this much activity – and aggravation – before. Today just seemed to be an unlucky day for many of Skyrim's residents, and, as usual, it was up to them to resolve disputes, kill bears, blah blah blah. The list seemed to be endless.

A particularly grumpy Vilkas walked into Jorrvaskr after killing the third sabre cat that day (seriously, couldn't people kill it on their own?), only to be shoved towards the door again. "No resting," Aela huffed, "There's plenty of work to do. Hannah is gone at Riften, and I doubt even the Divines know when she's coming back, so you're going to fill in for her."

He dug his heels into the ground and glared at her. "I covered for her last week, if I recall correctly. Can't you get someone else to do it?"

She returned the look with a venomous gaze of her own. "Stop being a wimp," she snapped, "Listen, you're not the only one who's tired, so suck it up and go wipe out Silent Moons Camp. You're starting to piss me off already."

Aela easily went from being agitated to becoming downright murderous, and to be honest, Vilkas was afraid of her when that happened. He sighed in defeat, pushed the door open, and when it had closed behind him, mumbled, "Fine, I'm going, you redheaded, dog-scented psychopath."

It was known throughout Whiterun that Vilkas possessed little to no gymnastic abilities. However, as he started down the steps that led to the plaza, he somehow managed to find his inner acrobat. Leaping into the air, he spun in at least seven different ways, threw his arms outward, and cried out in happiness.

Maybe that isn't the right word – 'terror', 'surprise', and 'total and utter ijustfelldownthestairsohmygo d' are more appropriate. Either way, the face-plant that followed was slightly glorious and very painful indeed.

A strong pair of hands was already yanking him up. "You should be more careful," Hannah said. "I nearly tripped too. Didn't you realize that my foot was right in front of you?"

He stood and frowned. "Yes, but I was already seven feet in the air when I thought of it," he said. "By the way, we need you to go kill some bandits so I can go lay down."

She shot a look at him that dripped with distaste. "Hey, hey, not so fast. I'm not in the mood to do anything right now. I have problems of my own."

"As do I."

"Yeah, but I'm not exactly concerned about you right now."

"Are you ever going to stop arguing with me?"

"Depends. Are _you_ ever going to stop arguing with _me_?"

His voice was a low growl as Vilkas answered, "This is getting us nowhere. Clearly we're both not in very good moods, so let's just get this over with. I'm going to the camp."

She was already climbing up the steps. "That's nice. Maybe Aela will let me break up a brawl or something."

He immediately pulled her back and began dragging her away. "No, she won't," he said simply, "because you're coming with me."

Killing bandits was usually an easy job. However, the mere trip to Silent Moons Camp was enough to make Vilkas think that maybe, _just maybe_, they might end up with axes in their backs. Hannah was keeping herself busy by emptying bottle after bottle of mead, and the Nord was a few short steps away from drinking one as well. However, the second they reached the top of the hill, the elf threw yet another bottle to the side and pulled out her bow. With careful precision, she plucked an arrow from its quiver, fit it to the bowstring, and fired. _She's drunk_, Vilkas thought. _There is no possible way that she can still be sober after that much mead._

The projectile spiraled through the air and embedded itself in the tree a good seven feet away from the bandit. _Yes. Definitely drunk._

With a generic war-cry, the man whipped out his sword and charged toward her. She attempted a nimble leap from harm's way – and it would have worked perfectly, had she been sober. Alas, she was the complete opposite, and by the time Vilkas had rushed to her rescue, she already had a deep gash in her shoulder and blood was trickling from her lip.

In one harsh motion, he pulled her to her feet and shoved her in the opposite direction. "You can't fight when you're like this," he snarled. "We're heading back to Jorrvaskr. Now."

She stumbled a little bit, but managed to catch herself on a tree. "Y-yes I _can_," she said indignantly. "Just give me a shecond to emit my sword-"

"_Equip_ your sword."

"Yeah, that."

"No." He began to tow her down the hill, ignoring her slurred protests. "You're not going to be killed by anyone but me, because I can assure you that I'm extremely close to it. You're not doing any work for us until you can stop tripping over your own feet."

The force of her voice hit him before the sound did. "**FUS RO!**" And then she was up and running, her limbs flailing spastically as she reached for her sword. Which she immediately used to bust open a door and poke at a bandit chief.

The battle itself wouldn't have been very difficult, but with some variables thrown in – such as alcohol – Vilkas was surprised to find her nearly unscathed, save for a few cuts. Her opponent, however, was less fortunate, and happened to be lying in a pool of crimson. Hannah grinned. "Look, Vilkas, I did it all by myself! Aren't you proud of…"

She keeled over at that moment. It was obviously the drink, that much was evident, but now the man was burdened with the challenge of taking her home. Bending down, he gave her a few somewhat-harsh slaps to the face. "Hannah," he hissed, "Hannah, you idiot, wake up. I am not going to carry your unconscious body all the way back to Breezehome."

She didn't answer him. In fact, she was in such a deep sleep that she hardly stirred when he slapped her again. "By the Divines, Hannah, wake up."

Again, there was silence.

"…I really hate you right now. You'll be lucky if you don't end up with my sword in your skull after this." With that, he threw her grudgingly over his shoulder and began to walk.

* * *

_One moment she was gripping this man's hand like her life depended on it, and the next, she was watching him burn alive. She saw the horror and pain flash in his eyes before he collapsed in a fit of screams, flames consuming his body with a ravenous hunger. She was too shocked to react, even as she caught a glimpse of the fire licking at her arm._

_Someone grabbed the back of her tunic and pulled her down the steps, catching her roughly. Ralof's hand came down over her sleeve multiple times, leaving a mess of burnt cloth and skin behind. Hannah grimaced as her flesh started to blister in painful, inflamed knots. "The dragon," he explained, leading her away from the ruins that used to be the second floor. "It looks like this tower isn't safe anymore."_

_Her stomach turned with one glimpse at the dead Stormcloak. She said, "I don't think anywhere is."_

* * *

"Is she still asleep?"

"I would have thought she was dead until I checked her pulse. She's out cold."

"I _told_ her to leave the mead at home!"

"You're her housecarl. I would be extremely surprised if she took your advice to heart."

Lydia scowled. "What do you mean by that?"

"She's stubborn as a mule," Vilkas said simply, giving a small shrug of his shoulders. "If she can't listen to me, then I doubt she'll ever listen to you. The elf is mad, I say. The only way she can ever be considered sane is when she's either sleeping or dead." He tore off another chunk of bread and chewed it thoughtfully. "Does she take you on quests often?"

She leaned back into the armchair, letting out a deep breath. "Not really," she answered.

"Then start going with her," he said. "I don't think anybody needs the Dovahkiin to get herself killed because she had one too many drinks."

"She'll murder me if she doesn't get alone time," Lydia mumbled.

"The idiot will get murdered if she _does_."

A nimble hand flew down and swiped the bread from him. Hannah tossed it from hand to hand, saying, "Idiot's a strong word, don't you think?"

Lydia sighed, but from either relief or stress, no one was sure. "Good to know you're not in a coma. How are you feeling?"

She jerked her arm away as Vilkas attempted to grab his snack back. "I'm going to go take a walk."

The Companion's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "It's dark outside."

"Indeed it is."

"Perhaps someone should go with you?"

The expression on her face suggested that she'd just been insulted. "No, I like being alone. I'll see you two in the morning." A grin materialized on her face. "Also, thank you for the bread. It smells delicious."

"I'm sure you know where the door is. Use it," he huffed.


End file.
